Whispers Beneath the Trees
The wind flowed in, and it caressed,
Going where it felt it should go,
Gentle in its passing,
So gentle, even the grass didn’t feel it or know.
It continued on through glen and vale,
And out again, with knowledge kept.
The grass was still, undisturbed. The dandelion, untouched — still waiting.
Heather, full and heavy, bowed in quiet bloom,
Its blush brushing the brightly shadowed variance above.
A berry tree leaned near — ripe with bounty,
Colorful. Enticing. Almost enough to stir a breeze.
At the glen’s heart, a brook
Drifted lazily — not babbling,
But whispering, making almost no sound.
Sunlight peered out from behind the clouds up high,
And escaped between the leaves.
The pebbles and stones flickered very slightly
Beneath a passive sky and slow, willowy drift.
It was delicate, brief, what the sunlight revealed.
The downward slopes were mild and tiered,
Layered with bushes and shrubs,
And with leafmoss, nettles, bramble scrub.
Quiet, they were, above the carpeted ground —
Meshes of vines, of grasses, and small flowering cultivations.
Silent. Still. Only visible in a discreet way.
Dew from morning still remained,
Slowly receding from view,
As hints of fog did too,
Drawn back to colder, darker places
Where little sun ever showed through.
The trees — their canopies wide —
Covered the upward stretch of the downward slope,
Lending bare light to the yearning competition below,
Just enough to keep them there,
Not enough to let them peak or grow.
Fruitless trees held dominion over all.
And always, there is one more ancient —
The one who stands tall through three seasons and fall.
Reaching up. Growing out. Roots deeper than any.
Claiming everything. Noticing nothing.
The shade it gives is not offered in kindness,
Yet it comforts many,
In the vastness, the quietness, of its solitude.
Creatures, medium and small, move beneath the outer trees.
Some live within, many without,
Residents and explorers,
Careful — and also carefree.
The birds nest in those trees,
Watching the open spaces with caution.
They sing songs of welcome
And of warning.
Except for the hawks,
Whose gaze is meant for something else — Entirely.
Other eyes beneath the shadowing canopies
Watch the open grassy calm, the heathered grounds,
Hoping for distracting moments to visit the whispering brook,
And perhaps to find something interesting along the way —
With leaps and bounds, hopeful only for unassailing sounds.
The quiet glen — it doesn't dream.
It breathes. No unrealities dwell within it.
The tree of ancient majesty towers above,
Roots digging deep and far, and away.
Of the surface, beneath it, it heeds nothing of,
Yet it gives shade when shade is needed,
And what settles there, might nourish its needs.
It will remain, standing there, for time unnoticed and forgotten —
Until something remembers it all that shouldn't.
Those who notice life outside will pray
That man never finds this quiet, small glen.
For then it would fade away.
For man covets natural calm and beauty,
And always loves it into extinction.
Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment